Solitude
by Rain Minstrel
Summary: Legolas blames himself for the loss of his love, and punishes himself for it. (rated R for implied rape and A/L slash)
1. Solitude

Rivendell possesses a beauty which was alien to Mirkwood. Here, all glows with a soft light, and there is always a sense of contentment. My home is darker, more untamed. Dangers lurk in the hidden forests.

Rivendell has Rosalind. It seems to me that a place could be made beautiful just by having Rosalind present. I hope, tonight, she will consent to be mine, so that Mirkwood will always hold the appeal of Rivendell, and I will always be lit by her light. 

I know every detail of Rosalind. She is slender, like a willow wand; fragile, like gossamer. Her eyes shine like dawn on the river. Her hands are like butterflies' wings; delicate, clever, quick. When I hold her against me, I need to be careful not to crush her, tiny as she is. 

Another thing which Rivendell offers is solitude. In Mirkwood, there is no time for solitude. And the forests are hardly safe enough for one to wander alone, lost in thought. But here in Rivendell I sit, alone but for the ancient trees, which shake their heads sagely at me with the wind, and I find peace.

I have been here a week already on this visit; a week spent drinking in the beauty of Rivendell, and the beauty of Rosalind. The Council of Elrond, the reason for my visit, is tomorrow, and then I shall have to return to Mirkwood. But this time, when I go, I hope to take Rosalind with me.

Soft footsteps fall behind me.

"Rosalind," I greet her, not turning around. I would know Rosalind's step anywhere.

Only yesterday we filled this glade with the ecstasy of our passion. I smile as I remember the feeling of being with Rosalind, of gentle touches and savage kisses. Slight as my beloved may be, she is as fierce as a lioness, in love. 

She hesitates slightly, before stepping gracefully over to join me. With the arrival of such a peculiar group – hobbits and men, not to mention a dwarf! – it is likely that Rosalind, too, is seeking some peace.

I touch her delicate cheek with my hand, which is rough and callused from archery and swordwork.

"I need to ask you something, Rosalind," I say softly.

Her eyes flicker for a moment to the trees behind her. They are like a doe's eyes, large and full of…surely, it was not fear?

"I know what you are going to ask," she blurts, and she can no longer meet my gaze. "I can not marry you, Legolas – I can't!"

I am taken aback, and sorrow wells in me.

"Rosalind…" I begin.

A figure steps from the shelter of the trees. I do not know this elf. His appearance is striking, almost ethereal, with his halo of silver hair, and the slenderness of his body. He is so fine boned, and the paleness of his skin so translucent, that he does not seem to be of this earth.

He steps up to Rosalind, and drapes a possessive arm around her shoulders. A thin smile twists his mouth. 

"Rosalind has graciously consented to be my wife, Legolas Greenleaf," he says, voice deceptively pleasant.

My stomach feels as if an arrow has just gone though it, as shock courses through me.

Rosalind is looking very steadily at the ground. For once, I cannot tell how she is feeling. She is closed to me. 

"Rosalind…why?" I cry, but my voice is a choked whisper. 

She meets my eyes, then, pain and anger and sorrow filling those perfect, liquid eyes. "You would not understand….Farewell, Legolas."

The strange elf casts a triumphant look at me before steering her away. 

I am left alone once again. The shock and hurt seems to have settled in my stomach. It feels as if giant butterflies are fluttering madly. Suddenly, I throw up, emptying my stomach the way I feel my spirit has just been emptied. When I am finished, I feel much better, as if a weight has been unloaded. I wash out my mouth in the river, and head back for Rivendell, trying not to think of Rosalind and all the emotions she causes.


	2. Revelations

I had not imagined journeying back to Mirkwood, alone. I had not thought I would be facing the future, alone. I had loved Rosalind since the first time I had laid eyes on her. In truth, my presence in Rivendell was often due to her. Elrond always saw through the excuses and royal greetings I offered when I set foot in Rivendell, and laughing, told me where to find my love.

Rivendell often felt more like home than Mirkwood.

Now it would never do so again. And I do not want to return to Mirkwood alone, fresh with the pain of rejection.

In the Council, I could not force myself to pay attention. My thoughts kept wandering to Rosalind, and the strange elf who had claimed her as his betrothed. Anger boils in me each time I remember his sneering face and insolent voice. Something about him irks me beyond reason.

__

Stop it, Legolas! A voice in my head snaps at me. _If you truly loved Rosalind, you would be rejoicing over the fact that she has found true love! Do not be so selfish!_

Yet I can not stop. My mind worries over it constantly. Who is this elf? It's true that I am not always at Rivendell, yet I know all the elves there, or so I thought. And how long had Rosalind been with him, ere the announcement today? It must have been quite awhile, for this love between them to grow. Anguish courses through me. What had I done, for Rosalind to reject me? How had I failed her? All that I had to offer, I laid down her at her feet. And it seemed to be not enough. 

"I will take it! I will take the Ring to Mordor! Though…I do not know the way."

A small voice cuts through my thoughts, and I look up. One of the Halflings stands bravely in the midst of the arguing Council. He is determined, but fear shines in his eyes.

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear," Gandalf says heavily, sorrow showing clearly in the old wizard's face.

One of the men who are present strides forward, and I find my eyes strangely drawn to him. He is kingly in robes of shimmering velvet, but his air of dignity is even more apparent in the steadiness of his gaze, and the way he carries himself. And then I recall who he is – Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He who is called Isildur's Heir, and holds the heart of the Lady Arwen.

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will," Aragorn tells Frodo gravely, and kneels before the Halfling. "You have my sword."

"And my bow," I find myself saying, quietly but firmly. If I do not want to return to Mirkwood, and Rivendell is no longer a haven, I might as well give myself over to a greater purpose. 

*****

A great feast is prepared, and all of Rivendell is present. All but two – my eyes scan the hall feverishly for any sign of Rosalind, or the strange elf, they are not here. The food lies cold on my plate. Delicious though it might be, I can find no appetite when the troubled swirling of my thoughts will not give me peace. I long for this night to be over, so that I can find solitude in the great forests, and relieve some of this pain through tears or song. 

"You are being very quiet, Legolas," says Aragorn, suddenly, who is sitting to my left. I start slightly – I had not been paying attention, again.

"I was…thinking," I mutter, caught off guard.

His grey eyes hold mine for a moment, and I feel as if he could see my unhappy thoughts.

"There will be plenty of time for that later, during the Quest," he says finally.

Then he looks at my untouched plate, and a slight frown crosses his brow. 

"You should eat something, while you have the chance. Rations will become slim ere we reach the end."

Irritation grates in me. He is a stranger, and a Man, and he does not have the right to chastise me before the entire population of Rivendell.

"If you will excuse me, my Lord Aragorn," I say coldly, "I have just finished my meal."

I rise and stride out of the hall, ignoring the startled stares that are turned my way.

I do not care. 

I need to escape, before the tears do.

I head swiftly to my usual place of solitude, by the river, but it appears someone has arrived first. Small, soft sobs fill the clearing. 

It is Rosalind, her gown unlaced to show ugly purple bruises covering the delicate skin of her body. I gasp in shock, and call her name.

She freezes in the middle of her weeping, shoulders shaking soundlessly.

"You," says a new voice, sleek with contempt. The strange elf's footsteps are lighter than air, so that I never hear him coming.

Rage washes over me, and I grab his shirt roughly.

"What have you done to her?" I snarl, a fist poised to smash his arrogant nose. 

"I?" The elf raises an eyebrow. "I am not the bully here." He glances pointedly at my fist. 

"What are you trying to say?" I demand.

"One should take care with something so precious as Rosalind," he says. "It is you who have caused her this hurt, with your 'lovemaking' that must resemble a bull rutting more than love!"

I release him in shock.

"Rosalind?" I ask, voice trembling slightly. "Did I…did I…."

My love is sobbing so hard that she cannot speak.

I am aghast. I remember the fire of our lovemaking, but I would never intentionally hurt her. Never intentionally hurt her….Had I used my love as a whore, to satisfy my own desires?

Is that why fear shines in her eyes when she looks at me?  
  
I have no answers, and I turn and run stumbling from the clearing and the evidence of my own brutality.

A voice hisses after me in the darkness.

"Never come near her again, Legolas Greenleaf. You will pay dearly if you do."


	3. Like Ice

****

Aragorn

Caradhas is merciless. Its beauty is treacherous. The pure white snow is near impossible to wade through, and our efforts are tiring us all. The halflings especially, are suffering. They are not built for such toil, and I can see the weariness on their faces, as they struggle for each step.

Only the Elf makes his way effortlessly, feet making no impression on the soft snow. Yet when I look at him, he seems more exhausted than even the halflings. His face is pale and gaunt, and his eyes hollow. Walking on the snow, rather than in the relative shelter of this trench, he is buffeted by the icy winds. At each gale he reels, struggling to keep his balance.

It seems he does not have the energy to continue. We all need a rest, and a chance to warm up by a fire, and to eat something hot.

We cannot spare the time.

When the hobbits ask to rest, this is the answer I give them. And it is true, for every passing hour, the danger grows. But when I see the defeat in Legolas' eyes, how can I bring myself to refuse?

"Halt!" I call over the howling winds. "We shall halt for noon!"

Gandalf turns to me in surprise.

"The halflings are exhausted, Gandalf!" I yell, to make myself heard. "They cannot go much further like this!"

It is not the halflings I am worried about. 

We make our way to a small cave. It is dark and cramped, but the shelter it gives is very welcome.

The hobbits, predictably, immediately get a warm fire and meal started.

My attention is drawn to the lone figure of the elf. He is sitting with his head in his hands. His fine, blond hair is wet and rather bedraggled at the moment, but to me it shines finer than spun gold.

Where are these thoughts coming from?

I cannot stop them forming. 

My eyes linger over the lines of his face, his slim yet muscled body.

He is breathtakingly beautiful. And such pain is in his eyes. When he raises his head, the look in them is like ice. I yearn to walk over to him, and smooth out the frown that marks his brow. I wonder if he would smile if I kissed him full on his soft mouth? I have never seen him smile, Legolas Greenleaf. Yet I do not think he would welcome my attentions. There is an aura about him that screams for solitude.

The hobbits, Gandalf, Gimli and Boromir have eaten quickly and are sleeping, making the most of this unexpected opportunity to rest. I have been so intent on watching Legolas that the thought of food had left my mind. Suddenly I realised I was ravenous. I filled two plates, and walked over to where Legolas sat, deep in thought.

"Here," I offer. "You need to keep your strength up."

*****

****

Legolas

I am grateful to have my thoughts interrupted, for they are not pleasant. Self-loathing and guilt are strong in me. Being part of the Fellowship is not easy. I always feel to be the tag-along, walking alone at the end of the line. The hobbits form their own cheerful group, and Gandalf is always in consultation with Gimli or Boromir, or Aragorn. 

Aragorn. Why is it that I cannot get his face out of my mind? I am starting to know every line of his features, especially his mouth. I know the way he smiles, and frowns, and speaks, and I cannot take my eyes off the little scar on his upper lip. 

It is a relief when this man fills my thoughts, because my other thoughts are decidedly less pleasant.

More than anything, I want to be held in warm and loving arms, to take away this coldness that dwells in me. But that desire reminds me of Rosalind, and of the hurt that I caused her. When I close my eyes, I can still see the bruises on her body. The bruises I put there, in my selfish need for gratification.

"Here," Aragorn says, offering me a plate of food. "You need to keep your strength up."

I take the plate from him, and nod my thanks. In truth, I have not eaten since the day before the Council of Elrond. At first, the shock of losing Rosalind took away all hunger. Later, the self-loathing I felt made eating unimportant. Now, my stomach has shrunk, and I cannot take in anything except small sips of water without feeling nausea. 

It is easy to hide that, though. I give my rations to the hobbits, who seem to be eternally hungry. And no-one pays much attention to the silent elf, anyway.

I wait patiently for Aragorn to leave, but he remains sitting by my side.

"How are you managing?" he asks, at last, sounding slightly unsure.

I stiffen. What is he asking me this for?  
  
"It is just that you seem so tired," he continues. "As if you do not have the strength to continue." His eyes flicker to my plate, still untouched.  
  
I could have hit him. Will he never learn to leave me be, never come to realise that I neither want nor need his pitying attentions?

"I will check on the storm outside," I say, and walk away, leaving Aragorn and my plate to be taken by Sauron, for all I care.


	4. Simply Desire

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I don't know if I like this anymore. I thought I wrote it well, then I read "Roots"by Dwimordene; I thouight it was angst, and then I read "Solace" by J.Marie. (uh, tell me, won't you, if you don't want your fics mentioned here?) I still want to write this, because I'm having fun, and its good practise, I guess. I'm just saying it's not brilliant. Don't expect too much. However, you would make me very very very happy if you reviewed!! Please?

Legolas

I have not been alone ten minutes on the ledge outside the little cave before Gandalf joins me. If he notices the hostility in my eyes, he gives no sign of it.

Yet Gandalf is the only that I can tolerate right now. He stands quietly, unjudging.

"The storm is getting worse," he remarks, squinting into the flying snow.

I do not answer, but Gandalf does not seem to mind. 

"I brought you your plate," he adds, handing it to me.

I am about to refuse, when I catch the steel glint in his eye.

I mutter my thanks, and take a forced bite into the cold, hard bread. My starved body craves the nourishment, but my shrunken stomach protests. Nausea rises in me, and I fight to keep from vomitting in front of Gandalf.

The old wizard nods in satisfaction as he sees me eat, then shivers from the wind.

"It is too cold out here for the likes of me," he says, wrapping his grey cloak closer about him. "Do not stand here too long, Legolas."

With a kindly smile, Gandalf heads back into the shelter of the cave.

The cold does not bother me. In fact, it is comforting in its own cruel way. The iciness of the air is equal to the coldness I feel inside me, making the coldness seem almost normal.

The few bites of bread I have taken feel heavy and leaden in the pit of my stomach. Having food in me makes me feel foul and unclean, like the way I feel when I think of Rosalind. Stumbling slightly from light-headedness, I make my way over to the edge of the cliff. I kneel, and close my eyes, bending my will to make myself throw up. I gag, but nothing comes up. The need to rid myself of the food is overwhelming.

I place two ice-cold fingers in my mouth, pushing in as far as I can go. Suddenly I hit the right spot on the back of my tongue, and my stomach rejects the food I have just eaten. Violently, I bring up not only the bread, but even the sips of water I have taken during the day.

When at last I am finished, I stand, coughing painfully from the caustic acid that burns at the back of my throat.

It is a good kind of pain, almost like a ritual cleansing.

Before I go back to the cave, I take care to tip the contents of my plate over the edge, too. I feel slightly guilty about wasting our precious rations, but to go back with a full plate will cause too many unwelcome questions.

*****

****

Aragorn

Defeat is always bitter, but doubly so now that the prize at stake is so great.

I talk of Caradhas, blocking our way with snow and ice.

I talk of Legolas, blocking my concern with hard silence and fierce denial.

Since our rest in the cave, he has not looked nor spoken to me. Actually, he has not spoken at all; a silent, remote figure always at the rear of our line.

Part of me feels anger, in flames burning bright, at his stubbornness, his childishness. We have no time for these tantrums of his. His Elven pride cannot be allowed to affect the greater task at hand.

But I saw his face when Frodo decided that Moria would hold our path. I see the pure terror in his eyes.

And my heart goes out to him. 

More than anything I want to touch him; palm to palm, lips to lips, spirit to spirit. _What about Arwen?_ a small voice taunts. But the appearance of my Lady herself could not have stopped these thoughts. I shrug mentally. To simply desire is human. To succumb to these desires, now….

*****

****

Legolas 

Only sound exists in Moria. The crunch and stamp of our footsteps, the hoarseness of our breathing. Other, stealthier sounds that I cannot identify. My eyes are wide open, but I cannot see. It is as if I am dreaming. 

There is a gibbering voice, mad with fear, that I hear mixed in with the footsteps and breathing. _Darknessdarknessdarknessdarknessdarknessdarknessdarkness…._

There is no escape.

Gandalf and Gimli lead us. The hobbits follow after, and Boromir brings up the rear. I cannot bring myself to be last, in this place. Aragorn is two steps behind me. I think I hurt him with my silence, but any words I say would only hurt him more. If he knew the truth about what I did, he would only despise me for my weakness.

We step into a room which offers a shaft of sunlight, falling like a final blessing over the tomb of Balin. Gimli wails his loss, but his grief passes me by. My thoughts do not seem to be as sharp as they once were. Thinking is harder, for some reason. 

Gandalf is staring hard at me as I stare stupidly at Gimli. He opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly, an ear-splitting roar fills the silence. There is a pause, then another roar.

Boromir listens intently. "They have a cave troll," he remarks, dryly.


	5. Battle

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Thank you to everyone who reviewed!! I appreciated your kind words very much. And it inspired me to write another chapter today! From now on, this fic will be AU. I could do it to the books, but that would take too much, time, and anyway, I'm interested in Legolas/Aragorn, not Frodo and the Ring. So if you notice discrepancies, or some characters conveniently vanish, that's why. I hope you enjoy it, and please review!

Legolas

The ground thuds with the step of Orcs. I can feel the rhythm pounding in my blood. My heart beats faster and faster. Any sign of lethargy or dizziness leaves me and I stand, focused.

The world swirls and eddies around me, but I am still.

My first arrow takes an Orc through the eye. A second, third, fourth, falls. The battle fury is raging strong in me, now. I sling my bow back on my quiver, and reach for my long hunting knife.

It is not enough to kill them with arrows. I want to feel them die under my blade.

Never have I felt more exhilarated. I feel alive, as I bring death to the Orcs. A wordless scream of a battle-cry is torn from my lips as I pull my blade clear from the entrails of a goblin. I feel powerful. I want to cause pain to these creatures. Tirelessly, effortlessly, efficiently, I bring them down in splatters of blood and gurgling death-rattles.

Part of the roof caves in as the monstrous cave troll butts its way into the chamber. I curse. My knife will be useless against the thick hide, but I am loath to exchange it for my bow. Hesitating, I slash at another Orc.

Aragorn suddenly leaps before the cave troll, trying to spear it with a long javelin. First amongst men he may be, but even his raw strength is no match for a cave troll. My heart freezes as I watch him be roughly flung away like a child's doll. His head slams against a column, and he lies still.

Quicker than thought, my bow is in my hands, even as the cry "_Aragorn!_" forms on my lips. More than anything, I want to kill this cave troll, who has dared to cause hurt to Aragorn. Arrows fly thick and steadily from my bow, but do nothing more than enrage it.

Boromir leaps at the troll from behind, and slices his sword across the back of the creature's head. The shock makes the troll throw his head back. That is enough for me. I draw my bow one last time, and swing it back in the quiver even as the arrow leaves the string. I know my aim is true. 

My arrow blossoms in the soft throat of the cave troll, which gives a ragged scream as it slowly crashes to the ground. 

I feel as though I am being consumed by red fire. Blood pounds in my ears, stronger than ever. My blade is in my hand again, and I search for another Orc to kill.

Then Aragorn groans, and all thoughts of killing vanish from my mind. Running to him, I place a hand on his shoulder as he blinks and tries to get the world to focus again.

*****

****

Aragorn

My first thought is for Legolas. 

The swarming Orcs are but a distraction as I frantically search for him amongst their scurrying forms. Or perhaps he is the distraction for me. 

Focussing so hard on the Elf, I barely notice in time as a serrated blade flashes at my throat. Only reflexes, honed by years of practice, save me as my own blade comes up to parry.

It seems Legolas is more successful than I am. Orc bodies surround him, as he slashes fiercely with his hunting knife.

I stare in surprise. Plenty of arrows still fill his quiver – why is he using his knife? Then Legolas whirls to confront the next Orc, and I am stunned further by the expression on his face. His teeth are bared in a snarling rictus, fury and loathing flashing in his dark eyes. 

My sword is knocked from my grip by the cave troll to clatter on the stone floor. Cursing myself for being caught off-guard for the second time, I snatch a spear from the grip of a dead Orc. 

I lunge for the cave troll, but its thick hide repels the point like water.

Before I have the time to recover my balance, I am flung easily off the end of the spear. 

The world goes painfully black.


	6. Almost

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As you may have noticed, this story is not coming in neat packages of chapters. It wants to be written as is, so sometimes I'll update three chapters at once, sometimes one, depending on how it feels. Every uploading (be it one chapter or a group) is one part of the story in my mind (i.e. chpt 1-3 were about Legolas losing Rosalind, 4 was about his reaction to that, and 5- will be about Legolas and Aragorn.) I hope that made sense! And as always, please review *g* 

Aragorn 

There is a gentle hand on my shoulder, helping me find my way back to consciousness. Legolas frowns in concern as I grasp his arm to pull myself up.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" he asks, green eyes looking sharply at me to check for any sign of hurt.

My own eyes run up and down his body, and I admire again the slim yet powerful frame.

Without warning, Legolas reaches out to cup my face in his hands. They are icy cold, and I shiver, but he just glances at me impatiently.

"Do not be such a child," he murmurs absently, one hand ruffling my hair to check for swelling or any sign of a crack in my skull. 

I have to concentrate hard to stifle a gasp.

"Keep your eyes on my hand," Legolas commands then, seemingly oblivious to my reaction.

He moves his slender hand up, down, to the sides. I am not watching, though. Instead, my gaze is fixed on his face, his eyes…his curving mouth.

"Aragorn!" he says, the barest hint of irritation in his usually melodious voice. "Concussion," he adds. "I will be keeping an eye on you."

I feel myself want to grin like a fool at the thought of the Elf keeping an eye on me. I probably hit my head harder than I thought. As my eyes focus properly, I notice a long red scratch running from his cheek down his throat and under his shirt.

"What happened there?" I ask, touching it lightly with a finger.

"Orc," he says shortly, definitely irritated now.

Copying his own move, I place a hand on his cool cheek and make him look at me. My other hand follows the cut down to his chest.

In his eyes, I see shock, and then something else.

Hard desire.

*****

****

Legolas

"Aragorn! Legolas! Are you okay?" Frodo's worried voice comes over to us.

Convulsively, we spring apart.

I am shaking all over.

"I am fine," I say firmly. "Aragorn slammed his head quite hard, though. Probably a concussion."

Aragorn shoots me an irritated glare as the rest of the Fellowship rush to examine him.

"I am fine!" he announces. "And if everyone is fine, too, then it is time to be moving on."

It seems that his concussion and my cut are the worst of our injuries, so we set off once again. 

The darkness throbs hungrily around me. I feel as if it is pressing down on me. Yet it is not as bothersome as before. A remnant of battle fury is still in me, and I can still hear a roaring in my ears. Unthinking, I place a hand on the hilt of my knife. I long for battle again. I have fought countless times, of course, but no other battle has stirred up this feeling in me before. I feel powerful. In control. When I was fighting, there was no time to hurt inside. No chance to think of how I had failed Rosalind.

I want that wonderful, ignorant bliss again.

We halt at last for our midday meal. It is Aragorn's watch, but I do not want to sit and watch while the Company eats.

"I will take this watch," I say, before Aragorn can speak. "He is injured, and needs to rest. And an Elf's eyes may see what mortals' eyes may miss."

Aragorn protests, of course, but Gandalf interrupts.

"Legolas is right," he agrees, surprising me. "I will join him on watch."

The wizard's presence is the last thing I want, but I can hardly refuse.

We stand just outside the doorway of the chamber where the others are, one on each side.

"Would you like some cheese and dried meat?" Gandalf offers.

Just the smell is enough to make me gag involuntarily.

His gaze is shrewd, even in the darkness.

"I have noticed your…aversion to food," Gandalf says quietly. 

I stiffen and do not answer.

"I have seen some who develop this condition," he muses, almost as if talking to himself. "It is not always because they want to be thin. I think, in your case-"

"I am fine!" I snap angrily, then lower my voice so that it will not carry inside the chamber. "I do not need you nor Aragorn watching me eat like nursemaids!"

"I merely-"

"I am so many thousands of years older than the two of you," I hiss. "I am capable of taking care of myself." 

Where is this anger coming from? 

"You may be three thousand years old, and an Elven prince, Legolas Greenleaf, but you are a fool!" Gandalf growls.

My hand flies to the hilt of my knife, and I snatch it back, mortified. What was I thinking?  
  
Gandalf sighs, and steps across to lay a hand on my shoulder.

"I am sorry," he says. "I do not mean to be angry with you. It is just hard to see you always hurting…." He leaves off the word "yourself" with an effort.

"I will listen to anything that you have to say, Legolas, and not think any worse of you."  
  
Looking at Gandalf, a grey figure illuminated by the light from his staff, I suddenly feel the immensity of his age and wisdom. It is as if his years and knowledge eclipse my own, not by any human measure, but by experience and knowing.

"If you choose to confide in me, I will not, of course, breathe a word to the others."

"Not even Aragorn?" I ask, my voice barely audible. I surprise myself with this question. Unconsciously, I yearn to tell someone wiser of my fault, and Gandalf's gentle questioning had touched a raw spot inside of me. And why should I care so much what Aragorn thinks of me?  


Gandalf, however, shows no surprise. "Not even the Dunedan."

I stand, focussing on keeping my breathing even. The events surrounding Rosalind are like an arrow caught in my flesh. Time has begun to heal the flesh, but the arrow is still lodged deep. Now, trying to remove it is painful as it begins to stir up memories and emotions I had thought were safely trapped in time.

A shouted warning from inside the chamber shatters the moment.

"Orcs!"


	7. Lost

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Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Seeing them just made my day. I am busier now than I was when I started this fic, due to RL commitments, so this fic won't be updated as regularly as I'd like. Still, I am trying hard, because I'm discovering how much fun it is to write! 

Icefire: This was originally meant to be Legolas' story. Aragorn was not meant to have any PoVs! He acts as a counter-point to Legolas, so that we can see what Legolas is feeling better. But now that I have added him, I may write more about him (especially because he is my favourite character!), but Solitude_ is still about Legolas._

Cherryblossom: Thank you so much for pointing out the problem with my writing! I am still new at this, so I very much appreciate constructive criticism. I guess I made my mistake by taking the easy road out, and just assuming that people will believe what they want about Aragorn and Legolas, because they've all read slash fics. Aragorn and Legolas feel attraction to each other, which is strong, but right now their brains are just going "Huh?" while they're feeling the truth. 

Elf Lordess : Yes. *g* I like my mysterious Elf. He will figure again, later. 

Legolas

With that cry, I am closed again. No weakness. Only an intense desire to engage in battle. My knife glitters cleanly in the light from Gandalf's staff. 

The Fellowship file out of the room, and we run, Orcs pursuing us. 

There are so many of them. There is no floor anymore, only masses of snarling faces. No darkness, just the endless forms of swarming creatures.

There are enough, I think, to keep the pain inside me silent for eternity.

I catch Aragorn's eye, and we share a split second together. This may be the end, but we refuse to acknowledge defeat before our hearts fail and darkness takes our souls.

A booming rumbles through the cave. It is felt more than heard, vibrating in my body.

The Orcs freeze, then shriek in insane terror. As swiftly as they came, they vanish back into the shadows and the recesses of the cave.

I hear Aragorn's soft mutter.

"What unholy fiend scares even the Orcs?"

"To the bridge of Khazad Dum!" shouts Gandalf, and together, we flee.

The bridge is long and narrow. No railings are between us and the endless fall at the bottom.

Behind us, a terrible light suddenly blooms in the darkness. A figure blacker than even the emptiness beneath us appears, wreathed in twisting flame.

"A Balrog!" Gandalf growls. "Flee! Swords are of no more use here!"

He turns, facing the demon of fire. "Go back to the shadow," he says, authority ringing in his voice.

The Balrog advances, cracking its whip of lightening and flame.

"You shall not pass!" The very heart of Moria trembles with the might in Gandalf's voice. He is no longer a kindly old wizard in robes of battered grey. He stands tall and proud, and there is incredible strength his bearing. 

The Balrog recoils violently at the power which Gandalf directs at it, tumbling back down into the deep abyss from whence it sprang. Its light dwindles, and shadow falls once again over us.

We are relieved; darkness is more natural than the unholy fire of the demon.

And suddenly, Gandalf is old again, wearily leaning on his staff as he turns away from the gap in the bridge.

Before he can join us, a writhing tendril of fire snakes its way up, to latch onto the wizard's ankle. Gandalf is jerked off-balance, and scrabbles frantically for purchase on the edge of the chasm. His eyes meet ours for a moment, and he gasps out "Fly, you fools!" before succumbing finally to the darkness which he has denied for so many years.

We stand in shocked disbelief, the meaning of Gandalf's final words lost in our grief.

It is the arrows of the Orcs, finally, which remind us of his warning.

And we run.

*****

****

Aragorn

We halt, with nothing but darkness to mark our path. My bearings are gone, and I am disorientated.

"Gimli," I say softly. "Know you where our path lies?"

There is a moment of silence. I realise that Gimli had shaken his head, but without even Gandalf's small light, no movement can be seen.

"Nay," he replies, the usual gruffness of his voice replaced by raw grief. "But even if I did, we could not find our way in this darkness."

"Alas that we did not take the road by my city!" mourns Boromir. "We have lost our leader and our path in the one blow!"  
  
My heart agrees with Boromir, but I find no help in regrets.

"We must keep moving," I say firmly. "We may never find our way out, or we may encounter further danger, but it will do us no good to remain safely where we are."

"How can we travel in complete darkness?" Pippin asks dispiritedly.

I am about to reply – though I do no know what the answer is to be – when a low voice speaks.

"Aragorn has a light," Legolas says.

I feel, rather than see the Fellowship turn as one to face me.

What is Legolas talking about?

"Evenstar's necklace," the Elf continues, a strange catch in his voice. "Look. Her love is a light for all paths Aragorn may tread. Let it briefly be our light, too."

My hand creeps reluctantly to pull Arwen's pendant out from under my shirt.

A steady, white glow radiates from it.

The faces of my companions are suddenly clear to me. Bathed in the light of Arwen, they have an almost Elven cast to their features. 

A sigh of relief, like the Chinook stirring ice-laden boughs, ripples over the Fellowship.

Only one does not share this comfort. Legolas' gaze is turned ever inwards, contemplating an uncertainty only he is privy to.

If I had been able to see my own face, I would have seen that I, too, bear the same troubled frown.


	8. Touched

__

I have never written slash before. I have never written so much as a kiss before. I feel kind of strange doing this. I really have no idea what I'm doing, so how's this for a compromise? I'll write, and you can all tell me if it's acceptable or not. If the consensus is not, would someone good at writing slash (such as IceFire) please like to write my scene for me? Is this allowed under fanfiction.net? Anyway, I very much want to get this scene right but I don't know how. I don't want people to think that Legolas is a sicko, because he's not. Really! 

****

Legolas

I cannot decide which torments me more.

Arwen's love for Aragorn, given form in light.

Or the terrors of my mind, manifesting in darkness.

I sit on the border of the camp, in the middle of which Arwen's pendant hangs from Anduril thrust into the ground.

Not in full light, not in total darkness.

Touched by both.

An elf with an elf's gift of stillness, yet I cannot quiet my heart.

I long for battle, to feel the cold grasp of steel in my hand, or the deep thrum of my bow. To avenge the fall of Gandalf, and the fact that I could not fight then to save him. To lose myself amongst sharp knives and bared fangs forever.

The hobbits sleep in a huddled group, exhausted by their tears.

I cannot yet grieve for Gandalf. The loss is too fresh. I do not want to think about him, and part of me curses myself for this disrespect for an old friend. The other part is too tired to care.

I remember thinking once that thoughts of Aragorn were pleasant, diverting my mind from the pain that was Rosalind. 

Now Aragorn causes a different sort of pain, borne out of confusion and frustrated desire.

I close my eyes, and both soothe and torture myself with the image of a strong, aloof Ranger.

Soft footsteps fall behind me.

"Aragorn," I greet him, without looking around. I would know Aragorn's step if I were deaf and blind.

He hesitates slightly, before stepping lightly over to join me.

"Legolas," he begins awkwardly.

Something snaps inside me. 

"Spare me your words, Strider," I say bitterly.

All the loneliness, the grief and hunger for companionship crashes home.

I step forward and place my mouth on his in a savage kiss. 

Aragorn responds without hesitation, and although his kiss is gentler, it is not less earnest.

Suddenly, I want to weep, that he has not paused, nor faltered before returning my kiss. Instinctively, I want to show him joy. But a cruel hunger has been awakened.

His kiss is surprisingly sweet. I press harder, then find the corner of his bottom lip with my teeth. I bite down until I taste blood, metallic and salty, mixed in with the taste of him.

He does not flinch, but runs his strong, warm hands up under my shirt. I lean into him, then tangle my fingers in his dark hair. I twist my wrists slightly, so the smooth stands are tightly caught. He cannot move now, and I hold him like that for a moment, before pulling his head back. His throat is exposed to me, and I move my kisses down his chin, to his neck, growing ever gentler as I reach the delicate skin of his throat. A soft gasp escapes him as my tongue draws innocent circles. 

His questing hands, meanwhile, have found my buttocks, and trace them to the inside of my thighs. I shudder involuntarily at the sensation that jolts through me. The exquisite sweetness is too painful, and I seek a way to distract him. My mouth moves from his throat to his collarbone, where I make neat nips along the bone.

As he removes his hands, I release his hair, and let my own hands explore the lines of his body. Together, we move out from the ring of light cast by Arwen's pendant, so as not to disturb the sleeping Fellowship.

Aragorn reaches to pleasure me once more, but I catch both his wrists in one hand as I continue roaming his body with the other. He struggles, but a man does not easily outmatch a determined elf. And he does not really want to win this battle. I feel the changes in breathing when I reach a sweet spot, and linger there for him, feeling his chest heaving in gasping breaths under me. 

He tries yet again to free himself, but I pause from tracing his stomach with my tongue to give him another, warning bite on his upper thigh. That, and my continued ministrations, are enough to convince him to let me be.

I can no longer bear the sweet touch of lovers, but I want to show him pleasure.

When at last we climax, he cries out softly in ecstasy, but for me, it is just savage release.

And with Aragorn, that is enough.

*****

****

Aragorn

I must admit that I have never made love quite like that. It is also true, though, that I have never been with a male lover, much less a male Elf. I have bedded many women in my time, mostly serving wenches and tavern maids, but none of them could match Legolas' need nor his touch.

He sleeps, now, less than an arm's length away. His eyes are closed, for he chooses not to walk the paths of the Elven dreams tonight. I could reach out and touch him, feel once more the unbelievable softness of his skin. But even in sleep, even after what we shared, his expression is closed. 

I can tell that even my hand on his arm would be an intrusion, for Legolas welcomes only what contact he initiates.

This does not offend me, nor does it lessen in the slightest my interest in the beautiful creature before me.

I only want to know what has touched him so deeply that he does not want to know pleasure.


	9. Getting Out

****

Aragorn

The first thought I had this morning was wonder of whether the previous night had not been a dream. The pain I feel in my thigh, however, reminds me swiftly that it was not. Elven teeth are sharp, it seems. 

I can not put into words or even clear thought the way I felt about the Elf, yet I know that he entrances me. I have watched him sleep all night – we are guessing it is night, for there is no way to mark the passage of time in the eternal darkness of this place – and I know he sleeps fitfully, plagued by unwelcome dreams. Yet he seems to be in better temper today, sharing with me a rather shy smile, and sitting with the hobbits at breakfast. 

When Pippin looks disappointed at the meagre fare available, Legolas kindly offers him his own rations. 

"That's very kind of you, Legolas," I remark as I join them. "But you do realise that you could give Pippin your rations for the week, and he still would not be satisfied?" I grin at the hobbit to take the sting out of the jest, but Legolas flushes suddenly.

"This food…that is, your human food, is not very appetizing to me," he admits. 

"Well, that's all that we have until Lorien, so you'll have to learn to like it," I answer. 

Legolas grimaces slightly, and I realise that he has always been touchy on the subject of food. In fact, I have never seen the Elf eat, not even when we were in Rivendell. 

"Come," says Boromir heavily, before I have the chance to comment on my thoughts. "If you have eaten your fill, we should move again. I like not this brooding darkness."  


We agree, and set off in better spirits than before, after our rest and meal. Gimli, using the light of Arwen's pendant, was our guide, for he knew from folktale the ways of Moria. 

"Aragorn," the dwarf says, his voice low and urgent. I look at the path at which he is indicating, and wait for him to continue.

"This path will lead us out of Moria," he says, eyes fixed on me.

"That's wonderful!" exclaims a voice behind us, and I turn to see Merry looking hopefully at the shadowed path. 

"Why the reluctance, Gimli?" I ask him, for it is plain that all is not well.

"We would emerge some two weeks' journey from Lothlorien. Yet we cannot wander these mines forever, in hopes of finding the path that Gandalf wanted!"

Gimli's expression is a mixture of reluctance to waste any more time, and a revulsion at the thought of entering another Elven dwelling.

"You are right, friend," I tell him. "This way out is better than none. We will take this path."  
  
The eagerness of my companions is evident in the way the seven of us hurry to the entrance of this path.

"Legolas?" Frodo's voice sounds concerned. "Where are you?"

My heart leaps into my throat, and I am striding back the way we came before Frodo has finished his question. Images flash into my mind of Orcs, or demons, or another cave troll.

I find Legolas strolling leisurely about fifty paces behind us. He looks unconcerned at my urgency.

"What do you think you're doing?" I snap, my concern unleashing itself in anger.

Legolas raises an eyebrow. "You need a rear guard, don't you?" 

I begin to refute this incredible statement – rear guard in Moria, where separation from the group singled yourself out for target? – but think the better of it and shake my head.

"Hurry," I say instead. "We are leaving Moria!"

****

Legolas

There are black spots swimming in my vision, as if there is not enough darkness in Moria already. It is hard to keep my eyes focused, and the world insists on spinning each time I take a step. There is, also, a knot of pain in my middle, that twists and pulls itself slowly but surely tighter.

I lose sight of the group as they round a bend, taking the light of Arwen with them. I stumble on in the darkness, but within moments, Aragorn is back. His anger is visible, but I make some comment about being rear-guard, and he leaves the matter. 

I try my best to keep up with the man's long paces, for he has his eyes firmly fixed on me. We reach the end of Gimli's path, but it is not the end that we had hoped for. A wall of rubble marks where the exit once lay, and the only way out now is a small chink in the ceiling, where the sky shows temptingly blue.

Boromir looks thoughtfully at the jagged wall, then begins to scale it nimbly. It is just over twice the height of a man. As he reaches the hole, Boromir gives a grunt of disgust. 

"Watch yourselves," he warns, before his shield and pack come crashing down. "Too small," he explains, as he wriggles free of the hole. "I'm going to make the hole bigger…stand back." 

We do, and a flurry of rocks and dirt comes down, making us choke and cough.

That done, Aragorn boosts each of the hobbits up into the waiting arms of Boromir. Gimli growls discontentedly when it is his turn, but Aragorn ignores him. He passes up Boromir's shield and pack, then swiftly climbs up himself, accepting Boromir's firm hand to haul him over the edge.

I am the last left in Moria. I can hear rustling and voices above, as the Fellowship re-distributes their packs. 

__

Climb, my brain tells me, but I stand and stare stupidly at the sheer rock wall. It suddenly seems too much effort to move, especially with the overwhelming dizziness that grows in me.

"Legolas!" It is Aragorn again, peering concernedly down from the sky.

He takes a good look at me, then smoothly swings back down into Moria. 

"Come on," he says gently. "Up we go."

He lifts me in his strong arms, then shifts me so I am on his shoulders.

"Boromir!" he calls. "Catch."

Aragorn pushes me into the light, and Boromir's hands grab me and drag me up. The movement makes the world spin violently, and I squeeze my eyes shut as Boromir lets me fall gently on the grass. My rest is disturbed when Aragorn places a callused hand on my forehead. 

"What's wrong with him?" asks one of the hobbits.

"It is hard for Elves to withstand the suffocating mines of Moria," answers Aragorn. "Legolas will be himself again after a brief rest. Boromir, find a place where we can set up camp. We go no further today."

He watches the hobbits and Gimli join Boromir, then turns stern grey eyes on me.

Still lying on my back in the grass, I stare back at him, barely controlling the sudden panic that rises in me. He can't know…. I scramble hastily to my feet, ignoring the rocking of the sky.

"Thank you," I tell him, before he can speak. "I do not know what came over me."  
  
"I –" He sounds uncertain, but I cut him off before he has a chance to say anything.

"I don't know about you, but I for one would feel better after a hot meal," I say, watching him closely.

I must have said the right thing, as he grins and claps me on the shoulder.

"Ah, learning to like human fare after all," he remarks, as we follow the others to make camp.


	10. Knowing

****

Legolas

Aragorn had disappeared for an hour or so, returning with three rabbits and some wild carrots. The hobbits had looked at him – or rather, the rabbits – as if seeing an epiphany and are now happily skinning the rabbits to prepare them for tonight's meal.

It looks as if it will be a feast, with rabbit stew, and the last of our bread and cheese. Grinning almost sheepishly, Boromir has even produced a skin of red wine from his pack, to the laughter and appreciation of the others.

When Sam serves up the stew, I can feel Aragorn's eyes watching me. I ignore him pointedly, concentrating instead on my stew. It is thick, with plenty of chunks of rabbit meat, and floating carrots. I can smell the aroma of the herbs used to spice it, and suddenly I know that I am starving.

I begin spooning the stew into my mouth greedily, ignoring the heat even as it burns my tongue and throat. Nothing has ever tasted so good, not even the feasts at Lothlorien or Rivendell. I cram my mouth full of bread and the tart cheese, regretting the time needed to chew. 

Aragorn sees my hunger and laughs, dishing me up another bowl of stew.

"Getting out of Moria given you back your appetite?" he asks.

I am too busy stuffing myself to answer. In no time at all, I have finished my second bowl, and my portion of bread and cheese. Everyone else is still slowly savouring their first helpings.

"Here, try some of this." Boromir passes his skin of wine to me. I sniff it cautiously, being unused to human wine. It smells fruity and sharp all at once, and my hunger is still not satisfied. I take a long swig at it, red running down my chin in my haste. It burns as it goes down, and I choke, feeling sick.

Unsteadily, I rise, and shove the wineskin back at the surprised Boromir. "Excuse me a moment," I manage, before I turn and lose myself in the grove of trees at our backs.

The frantic craving for food had disappeared, leaving me feeling nauseated. My long-empty stomach churns, protesting at the sudden gluttony. Worse is the guilt that courses through me. I know not why food should make me think of Rosalind, but the strange link has formed itself firmly in my mind. Sated like this, I feel the same self-loathing that I did when I saw Rosalind covered in bruises. 

Falling to my knees again, somewhere out of earshot from the fellowship, I bring up all that I have eaten again. This time there is no need to physically trigger the vomitting; my body is frantic to be rid of the food that I have just eaten. I kneel retching until all I bring up is greenish bile, and tears are streaming from my eyes. There is a small stream bubbling nearby, and shaking, I make my way to it. I wash my face and my mouth, to try and be rid of the sour taste in my mouth, but I am careful not to swallow any.

I make my way further upstream, and a small bush of thyme catches my eye. I strip some of the small, silvery green leaves to chew, to make the bitterness go away. Reason tells me that I should return to the camp now, but I am reluctant to face their questioning stares. It is pleasant enough here, with the wind sighing in the boughs above and rustling through the drying grass.

Goosebumps rise on my arms, and I realise that I am cold, and have been cold since the slopes of Caradhras. I do not remember being cold before; Elves rarely feel the elements. But now my hands are numb, and my skin is mottled with it. I shiver in my thin tunic, which has always been warm enough for me.

"Cold?" a voice asks, and warm arms enfold my body.

"Aragorn," I murmur, suddenly content.

"Where did you run off to?" he asks, leaning in close so that I feel his breath on my cheek.

I flush red, not knowing what to answer. "I had to…that is…." 

To my surprise, he gives a low chuckle. "Couldn't wait?" And hot kisses trail down the side of my neck. His lips move to meet mine.

"You taste like wild herbs," he whispers.

I turn my face away, so his lips are in my hair, now.

"Aragorn," I say, unable to hide the huskiness in my voice. "What are you doing?"  
  
He pulls back a little, but is still holding me in the warmth of his embrace.

"Don't you like it?" he asks, a little uncertainly.

"I don't mean that…I mean…." He stops my words with a gentle finger that traces the side of my neck down to my side. I try again. "Don't you…aren't you betrothed to Arwen?"

The name of his beloved gets his attention, and he sits stiffly.

"What is it that you feel for me?" he asks at last, very quietly.

Whatever I expected, this is not it, and I am thrown aback. 

"Desire," I answer. 

"Not love?"  


I am silent, pondering that in my mind. "Can it be that it is love, though I know you so little? I am not sure that I know what love feels like. I know I feel good when you are holding me. I feel as if all around me the world can be falling to pieces, but as long as you are with me, it doesn't matter."

"It is difficult to know what love is supposed to feel like," he agrees. "Before I met you, I thought…I thought I knew love, and was in love, but now I am not sure anymore."

"Things would be a lot simpler for many, had they never met me," I answer bitterly, thinking of Rosalind.

"Simpler, perchance, but not better, beautiful one."

"What is it you feel for me?" I ask in return.

"Desire," he admits. "More than desire. I want to know the softness of your skin, and the secrets of your body. But I also want to see laughter in your lips…and love in your eyes."

I open my mouth to reply, even though as I do so I realise I don't know what to say. Aragorn places a finger on my lips, and shakes his head.

"Don't."

He kisses me, slowly and sweetly, then carefully unlaces my shirt. I feel his gentle hands caress my body, but it is not what I want. I do not understand why his touches evoke repugnance, even as he stirs passion, but reason has not been my strong point lately.

"No," I whisper to him, and distract him with a kiss of my own.

We spend the night in lovemaking, with me exploring every inch of him and getting to know him intimately.


	11. Hurting Lovers

****

Legolas 

My head aches so I can barely see. A film of darkness washes over my vision, and suddenly I feel as if I am lurching forward, free-falling through time and space. I keep my expression smooth and my steps steady out of frequent practice. I know not is causing this, but it will not hinder our journey to Lorien.

I am not sure how far we are from the golden wood. I cannot even think how many days it has been since we fled the tomb that was Moria. _Gandalf!_ cries a voice inside me, and another voice, full of tears, replies _Rosalind!_ Why do these names hurt so much? They add to the cold knot that is ever-present in my stomach; a knot of ice that twists itself tighter and tighter as time passes.

I do not want to think about these names, this _Gandalf_ and this _Rosalind_. It is easier to feed them to the Moria I have inside myself; a dark, endless place where I push all the thoughts I don't want to acknowledge. Most of my thoughts are in this darkness, right now. I do not remember any of the details of our journey after we left the real Moria. Only the memories – though still unclear, they are a streak of gold and crimson against the drab monochrome of my other impressions – of my nights of passion with Aragorn convince me that I am still living and not a shade in Mandos.

Another wave of darkness, and the world spins wildly around me. The dull pain in my middle intensifies, and for a moment I feel as if I am going to throw up. I shift the position of my quiver, trying to ease the pressure of the strap across my front. Cold sweat breaks out over my body as I fight the nausea, but I am successful. I no longer feel the need to retch up bile and water – the only contents of my stomach.

"…like Rivendell?" Frodo's voice is wistful, as he looks up at me.

I blink, startled. How long has he been walking beside me? Has he been talking to me for long?

I rack my brain for a reply to a question that I did not register.

"No, I do not know how far we are from Lorien," I tell him.

Frodo gives me a strange look, and shakes his curly head.

"You are not yourself, Legolas," he says gravely. 

"Not myself? Who else would I be?" I ask absently, my mind already wandering to other thoughts. I do not notice when he walks away, to bend heads with my lover over whispered conversation.

Some time after that, we halt for our midday meal. This seems strange to me – we have not stopped in the middle of the day since the snowstorm atop Caradhras. The halflings look surprised but relieved as they settle down to eat. Food conjures up the same darkness in my mind that _Gandalf_ and _Rosalind_ do, so I wander a little way from the Fellowship. I am glad to unload my bow and quiver, however; they have been growing steadily heavier on this journey.

I have missed the solitude I used to enjoy in Rivendell. Trees tower above me in this stretch of wood, and normally I would have scaled their high, windblown branches. My arms and legs feel heavy, today, and my body leaden so I am content to simply stretch out on the lush grass. After awhile of blinking steadily at the roof of wavering leaves, the ache in my stomach starts again. I roll over onto my side, head resting in the crook of one elbow, legs curled slightly, and wait for the pain to subside. And keeping time with the pain is the piercing whisper, _Rosalind, Rosalind, Rosalind_ over and over until sleep overtakes me and it is all I hear.

****

Aragorn

In the moments I take my eyes off Legolas to unpack some rations for the hobbits, the elf disappears into the trees, leaving behind only his quiver and bow.

I frown – Legolas should not willingly part with his weapons. A nagging suspicion that has been with me for some time, has been supported by Frodo today.

I make my way under the brooding trees, carefully reading the tracks that Legolas has left. I follow them for a good fifteen minutes, needing to double back on occasion. Strangely thought Legolas has been acting, his Elvish skills of woodcraft surpass mine. Had Elladan and Elrohir not been my teachers, I could never have tracked Legolas.

He is lying on the grass, blond hair spread behind him but for one strand which has fallen across his pale cheek. Curled in the foetal position, with his ever youthful features, Legolas looks suddenly very vulnerable. I spend long moments just drinking in the beauty of my sleeping elf.

In looking, I realise details that have never been so clear to me before. His fine cheekbones out in prominent relief against his hollow cheeks. There is a grey tinge to his skin, and purple smudges beneath his eyes. His lips had been silky when I had first kissed them; now they are cracked like autumn leaves, and tiny threads of dried blood mark them like veins.

That he sleeps in such abandon both moves me and scares me. The air of stillness about him is so great that I speak his name before I can help myself.

"Legolas."

I hear him exhale softly, then his eyes open wide. 

"It is not night." Not a question, just a wondering statement.

"Not yet." I squat on my heels as he sits up carefully. 

"Why did we halt for midday?" His eyes are huge in his peaked face.

"We needed a rest," I answer, more or less truthfully.

Legolas shakes his head. "We cannot afford time to rest, Aragorn," he says quietly. "It is imperative that we reach Lorien as soon as we can. Much time has been lost already, time," he raises his voice slightly as I try to interrupt, "time that you yourself have acknowledged that we do not have."

He has me there, and we both know it. My elf shakes his head again, and rises. "I will tell the others to be ready to travel again," he says, and vanishes almost instantly into the green and shadow of the wood.

I stand, fuming silently. How often he does this; dismissing me summarily whenever he does not want to talk. I set off determinedly to follow him, and clear up the matter once and for all.

****

Legolas

The brief respite has cleared my head slightly, for which I am grateful. The long afternoon journey does not seem so impossible now. I make my way back to where the others are resting, out of instinct more than skill. I feel light-headed, but I often do now, and I trudge onwards, unwilling to admit defeat, until a hand on my shoulder stops me.

Aragorn forces me to face him, and he smiles grimly at me, but his eyes are worried.

"No more of this, Legolas," he says firmly. "Stop running from me."

I begin to protest, but he places the fingers of his free hand over my lips. Unease steals over me.

"Are you well, beloved?" he asks, voice filled with such love that I want to reach out and touch him, or smash my fist against his face. I am not his beloved – I was Rosalind's beloved, and what has that brought upon her?

"I am fine," I answer stiffly. 

He raises one dark eyebrow in a way that only he can, speaking eloquently with the slight gesture.

"You do not need to concern yourself with me, Strider," I tell him.

He moves even closer, expression unreadable. "The last time you called me Strider, you kissed me," he says. If there is a hint of wryness about his tone, I cannot hear it.

"I am not going to do that now!" I snap at him.

"Tell me what troubles you, beloved."

I shake my head in a short, sharp movement, and squeeze my eyes shut as the dizziness comes again.

Aragorn's grip on my shoulder tightens until it is painful, the one point of steadiness in a rapidly spinning world.

"No?" Aragorn's voice becomes low, dangerous. "Then shall I tell you what troubles you, beloved?"

The unease has turned to panic now._ No! _screams my mind._ Don't talk, don't go there, don't ask! If you knew you would hate me and I don't want you to hate me, Aragorn son of Arathorn, I want you to…love me? Is that what I want from you?_ I draw a shuddering breath, and do not speak. Love is a dangerous word.

"Stop doing this to yourself!" he says, anger becoming evident.

I refuse to meet his eyes. I don't want to see the scorn and the disgust in them, I only want to see them full of love, as they are at night.

"Look at me!" he commands, shaking me slightly.

I try to pull back, but his grip is still firm on my shoulder.

"Leave me alone, Strider," I say, my words low and harsh.

"I do not know what you intend by this," he continues, ignoring me. "But I will not sit back and watch you hurt yourself like this." His voice is very grave.

"What right do you have to tell me what to do?" I snarl.

"The right to care about you!" he explodes.

"You have no rights!" I shout at him, using the darkness inside me to hurt him. Anything rather than facing his scorn, or worse, his pity for the messed up elf. "Bedding me at night does not give you rights! I am not your elf – " something akin to guilt flickers across his face here, "and I do not need, or want, your pity!" Anger born of the frustration and self-loathing inside me fuels me on.

"Do you who I am?" My voice is wild by now, breaking from the emotions tumbling over me. "I am the crown prince of Mirkwood! When my part in the Fellowship is over, I shall be king! And do you know what kind of a king Mirkwood will have, Aragorn?" We are both breathing heavily, eyes locked on each other. I shake my head, not wanting to think about Rosalind and what I had done to her.

"King. We will both be kings but we cannot have…." Words are failing me fast. "You do not want to love me," I say, more quietly, but my voice is still strangled. "Do you know what I do to those that love me? I hurt them, take their love and smash it like glass against them – "

"Valar take them all!" Aragorn roars suddenly, losing his composure for the first time I have ever seen. He gives the impression that he is not a man who angers easily, and this sudden fury is unnerving in the least. "I do not care about them! I do not care about anything but you, and by Valar if you do not stop acting like a child – " He stops and controls himself with some effort. "There is nothing that you can do that will make me stop loving you," he says evenly, and my heart melts and breaks at the same time.

He does not know what he is saying, does not know what those words really mean.

"Let go of me," I say harshly, pulling away. "I do not love you! I _will_ not love you!" I turn away from him, but he catches me again.

White-hot rage floods me, the same rage I felt when I met Rosalind's strange elf, the same rage I felt when I nearly pulled my knife on Gandalf. The same rage I feel when I am in battle.

"Release me!" I bark, despairing and hating all at once.

Aragorn's only reaction is to tighten his grip around my wrist.

The leash on my temper snaps, and before I realise what I am doing, I have twisted and kicked him hard. It is a perfectly executed kick, and I feel the _crack_ beneath my foot as a rib breaks.

Caught off guard, Aragorn stumbles backwards, releasing his hold on me. He falls awkwardly, one hand trying to break his fall, the other cradling his ribs.

My mind screams in shock and remorse and self-loathing. What have I done? I want to go to him, to cradle him in my arms like I do at night when we are lovers. But my body will not move, and a cruel satisfaction steals over me as I stare down at him.

His breathing is shallow and fast, and sweat beads on his forehead and top lip as pain washes over him. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, fighting nausea as he probes his ribs carefully with one hand.

I turn and head back to the camp without another word.


End file.
